“That’s great,” I enthuse. Noah’s part of a club baseball league, and even though their competitive season doesn’t start until the spring, they’re still training hard for their recreational games this fall.
“I got my phone back this morning too,” he continues, flashing me the newly repaired screen and shaking his head in embarrassment. “Finally all fixed.”
“You really need to stop trying to video call while inebriated,” I chide playfully, knowing full well I’m the reason for his drunken antics.
“Pssh, so worth it,” he says, smirking in the devastatingly charming way he does. “How was Grayson’s game on Saturday?”
“Ugh,” I groan. “Same as always.”
He glances sidelong at me. “And yesterday? What did you do?”
“Finished the sunrise painting I started. I had to change a few things and add a few layers for texture and depth, but I think it came out good,” I say a little breathlessly. “Want to see a picture?”
Noah nods emphatically. “Of course.”
I wait until we’re stopped at a stoplight to show him. I added more blue hues to the edges of the painting to tie in the specks of darkness at the center. Now the painting gives the impression of lingering night, the swiftly lightening sky clinging to the calm safety of darkness, as if for dear life. It’s a bit disconcerting, butit also makes me feel hopeful, in a way. Like if I just try hard enough, fight with enough ferocity and determination, I too can hold off the inevitable.
Noah’s bright blue eyes rove over the image for a few seconds.
“It’s beautiful, Maeve,” he says. “You keep getting better and better. It’s amazing.”
“Really? You think so?” My cheeks heat, the burn creeping toward my ears.
“I know so.”
“Does it make you feel anything?” I ask, bringing the image back to myself as the light turns green and Noah refocuses on the road.
He takes a minute to consider, drumming his thumbs against the steering wheel, before responding, “Love.”
“Why?” I ask, turning in my seat to regard him.
“Becauseyoumade it.” He smirks like it’s the smoothest thing he’s ever said.
On the outside, I laugh and playfully swat at him, but on the inside, my stomach drops; not the anticipatory swoop of butterflies, either, but the sensation of a missed step—of a sudden free fall.
Noah’s supportive, amazingly so, but he doesn’t get my art. He’s a data and computers guy, so artsy stuff doesn’t often make a lot of sense to him, and sometimes, like right now, that reminds me how little we have in common.
Noah and I have been friends since we were six years old. We met in kindergarten, and from what our parents have always told us, we came together serendipitously on the playground one day and have been inseparable ever since. I don’t actually remember a time in my life when Noah wasn’t by my side. He smiled at me whenever we painted in elementary school, even though he wasn’t very good at it, took me to the nurse’s office when I fell off a swing set and broke my arm, listened to me while I yapped on and on about my first crush, kissed me under the bleachers sophomoreyear of high school, and held me while I cried the day Alexis went off to college. He’s my cheerleader, my friend, my rock.
So maybe, at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter that we don’t have anything in common outside of our shared history. At least we make attempts to be interested in each other’s passions, even if we don’t always hit the mark.
I’m yanked from my thoughts as we roll into the community college parking lot, coming to a jerky stop in our usual spot before we hop out with our bags in tow. Noah throws his arm over my shoulder as we walk toward the back entrance. He smells like cedar and eucalyptus; the same cologne he’s worn since I’d gifted it to him three Christmases ago. The scent is as much him now as his smile or his laugh.
When we get to our classroom, a general education physics course Noah and I are both struggling through, I sit at a desk near the back of the room and pull the necessary textbook from my backpack before placing it on the heavily graffitied desk. As I mindlessly flip through the pages, I get the urge to check my social media again—only this time I don’t resist it. I let the textbook fall open to a random page while I check the notifications from each of my apps in turn. I’m thoroughly engrossed in my feed until the sharpsmackof a textbook meeting wood—with far more force than necessary, I might add—seizes my attention.
Startled, I curse as my phone slips from my grip before clattering to the floor. Before I can compose myself, Noah’s bending down to retrieve it for me. I thank him and hold my hand out expectantly, but he doesn’t give it over. When I raise my gaze to his face, his pale eyebrows are pinched together.
“Maeve, I was talking to you.” His lips press into a thin line.
“When?”
“Just now. The entire time you were doom-scrolling on your phone. You didn’t hear a word, did you?” His gaze is hard, judgmental.
“No, I didn’t,” I admit truthfully, holding my hand out for my phone again. “I’m sorry.”
Noah’s fist clenches around it, knuckles going white. “You’re getting addicted.”
My throat constricts, making my voice come out uncharacteristically pitchy. “What do you mean?”
